Shatterpoint
by deepthoughtz
Summary: Alternate Universe. Harry Potter, the Saviour, is now Minister of Magic. Although he killed Lord Voldemort years ago, the Death Eaters haven't ceased their campaign of terror; there are whispers of a dark return... and only he stands in anarchy's path.
1. Chapter 1

**Shatterpoint**

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I don't own, nor do I admit to ever have owning, the Harry Potter universe. All the characters you recognise belong to J. K. Rowling.

... Lucky her.

Whatever you don't recognise is mine, though.

* * *

**_Summary_: **_Alternate Universe. Harry Potter, the Saviour, is now Minister of Magic. Although he killed Lord Voldemort a decade ago, the Death Eaters haven't ceased their campaign of terror; there are whispers of a dark return... As the nation slips closer to the edge of anarchy, Harry must now hold on to himself as something tries to corrupt his very identity from within... for there's a price for any power, and there are two sides to every sky._

* * *

**1**

_**  
**_  
He didn't scream as he woke up.

The room was dark in places, his sleepy eyes dazzled by the streaks of light falling on the bed through the half-open curtains. He breathed in, his throat dry and clogged. The body beside him shifted, and he squinted to see her better. She was breathing deeply, her long hair a rusty red blanket on her breasts. He took away the covers gently, caressing her back with the gentlest touch he could manage. She smiled in her sleep.

He got up slowly, cursing in a soft voice as he glanced at the bedside clock. He took a quick glance at the bed behind him, listened to the even breathing for the briefest of moments, then made a quick gesture with his right hand. His eyes narrowed in concentration as the curtains slowly spread themselves open, letting the morning sun flood the room with light. The sleeping girl made a little annoyed noise of protest at the intrusion. His mouth quirked up a little at the corners as he went to the adjoined loo.

The girl was sitting up when he came back shaved and dressed in a navy blue two-piece. He smirked as the girl gave an appreciative smile.

"Don't tell me, you have to go to work."

"I'm already late," He answered. "I have a meeting today with the boss. And I'm late. Because of you," He added pointedly. "You didn't let me sleep much last night."

"You seemed up for it," The girl grinned back. He snorted.

"I'll have to go now. Really, I'm late. The boss won't be happy."

"Will you be in trouble?" She asked apprehensively.

"Nah." He waved her concern away. "He won't make trouble. Not if he knows what's good for him, anyway… want me to take you home?" He asked as the girl started to get up, not bothering to cover herself. He whistled and she blushed, starting to gather up the clothes spread all around the floor. He looked appreciatively at the girl, barely eighteen, her body shining with a youth he himself barely remembered.

"No, I don't," She answered. "I don't want daddy to think that I'm sleeping with a thirty-year old guy."

"Twenty-eight."

"Yes, all right. But I don't want you to take me home. That'll be something. If Dad sees you with me – "

"He won't." His eyes glittered. "I know magic, remember?"

"Whatever." She snorted. "I can get home by myself, thank you."  
"I keep thinking I should go over to your home one day and introduce myself," He said. "We're neighbours, after all."

"Daddy _is_ curious about the house," The girl replied. "He was saying that he'd seen you in the shops last week. He said he wanted to come over and chat," She rolled her eyes. "But couldn't find you somehow after that."

"Yeah, I saw him too. But I was in a hurry." He admitted.

"Besides, even if you go and see him, what're you going to tell him? About us, I mean?" She arched an exquisite brow. "You don't even tell me what you _do_, for God's sake."

"I'm pretty sure I have," He smiled. "About a hundred times."

"And I haven't believed you once." She sniffed. "You are as much an accountant as I'm – I'm – one of those witches you always talk about."

"I know witches too." His smile widened. "Here once was a witch of Willoughby Wood, and a weird wild witch was she, with her hair that was snarled, and hands that were gnarled, and a rickety, kickety knee…"

"I sometimes can't help thinking you honestly_believe_ in all the paranormal crap," She snorted. "Anyway, aren't you late? I need to go home, Daddy's bound to wake up soon." She stopped at the door, looking back at him. "Harry?"

"Yes?" He went to her. "What's the matter, honey?"

"Take care of yourself, okay?" She bit her lips. "I don't know why, but I keep having these feelings – "

"Feelings?" He frowned, looking into her eyes.

"Yeah, like – " She fumbled for words. "Like something's going to happen – something _bad_. I know it's ridiculous, but… just be careful. Promise me you will." Her eyes shone with some emotion he could scarcely identify.

"And here you were telling me that all that paranormal stuff was shit. Okay, okay," He said, seeing the anxiety in her eyes. "I'll take extra care of myself if that's what you want." He kissed her, hard, crushing her lips. She responded, and he had to concentrate on his schedule to stop the ideas flitting through his mind. He broke off the kiss with not a little regret.

"We both need to hurry, I think," He said. Her face was flushed red, and her hands tightened on his for a moment before she stepped away from the embrace.

"I'll go out to the back, like always," She said, her breaths slowly evening out. "Will you be home tonight?"

"I plan to." He grinned. She blushed again. "I'll see you at ten."

He stood at the door, listening to her footsteps on the old staircase till they faded into the mute silence. He looked around then, his eyes slowly moving over the cracked and old walls. The house seemed empty, its silence an oppressive lonely absence that tried to weigh him down. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobweb of memories best forgotten. It was then that the mirror in the wall attracted his attention.

His eyes were red, red as fresh-drawn blood.

His mouth stretched into a smile that had no humour in it. He stretched his palm out, a gesture that blurred into a long thin shape of wood. He raised the wand before his eyes, murmured a word that distorted the air for a brief moment. The wand hissed, and he pressed its tip to his forehead. His skin rippled, then _changed_.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror again, the red eyes a stark contrast to the pale white skin, the nose flat and slitted like a snake. The breath hissed out of him.

"Stupid bitch," He whispered. "You stupid bitch. You don't even _know_ what danger is." The red reflection mocked him from behind the cracked glass.

_"Abeo,"_ He snarled, watching as his wand let out a little shiver. The power spread across his face, seeping into his skin, the charms of a change, the intent dark deceit. The skin darkened to a more normal shade, the nose filled out. The eyes faded, changed to a muddied green.

Only one thing didn't change, one scar. It had never changed.

He looked at the lightning for another moment, turned away. He took a cellphone out of his pocket, his wand vanishing into thin air as he flicked it in a casual motion.

"Kurt."

"Mr. Jameson!" The voice on the other end was young, young and excited. "I was going to contact you today, sir! We've found another location that may be of interest – "

"Send me the details," He replied. "I will need another place to stay next week."

"And the current one, sir? Are you planning to stay there till – "

"No." He cut the young man off. "I will leave tomorrow. Contact me on this number if you need to know anything."

He cut the connection, not listening as the voice at the other end stuttered something. He frowned at the contraption for a moment.

_"Evanesco."_

He dropped it, not caring as it disintegrated and vanished into a puff of smoke. "Rinny."

"Master Potter?" A small gnarly shape popped out of thin air, clad in tattered rags. Big wide blue eyes looked back at him in apprehension.

"Pack my things and take them to the usual place for the moment. We're moving again. If you're attacked there, you know what to do."

"Yes, Master." The house-elf bobbed her head.

"Get to it then," He said. "And take care not to leave anything behind." He twirled on his feet, and the room vanished around him in a rush of air.

* * *

"I have told you before and frankly I probably shall have to tell you again, Minister Potter, but there has not been _any_ change in his condition." He didn't like the way the young Healer looked at him, the glaring disapproval in the narrowed black eyes a sour taste in his mouth. He tried to sift through the feelings spread out like a rainbow to his eyes, sniffing out the truths and the lies as he delved deeper into the mind before him, desperate for even the smallest glimmer of hope in the dark.

Nothing. As it had been nothing all these months.

But failure was something that had never angered him less the second time.

"They say you are the best Mind Healer in Britain," He sneered. "In Europe, they claim. And in all these _months_ you show no progress." He curled his lips, a gesture of disdain that came with practiced ease. "One wonders just how much of your fame is… _deserved_."

The beetle-black irises narrowed further, the anger in them a dangerous gleam that whispered power to his Reading. But he had lost his fear of power a long time ago, in a field that walked with him now. A field washed with blood.

"I'm going to tell you once and for all – "

"No, you aren't." He interrupted with a vicious snarl. "You aren't going to tell me a damn thing, Healer. Instead you are going to go back to your lab and do some more of those experimental tests. And you will get results, Healer." He stepped forward, smiling as the young man shifted his stance, the slight defensiveness making his senses scream at him to go for the kill.

"Do you know why it's going to be that way, Healer?" He asked softly, his whisper a promise of eager violence. "I'm going to tell you anyway, so I suppose the point is moot. We are in a_secure_ location, Healer. That means nothing goes in, and nothing goes out." He felt his smile go taut. "Or no _one_, I suppose I should say. Few know we are here, Healer. And _I_ know all who know. Do you understand?"

"You dare threaten me?" The young wizard was blustering, but the fear was there, a deepening hue of black violet that stank of raw meat. "I am a Ministry-appointed Healer First Class – "

"Am I threatening you?" He laughed harshly. "My apologies, Healer. No_threat_ was implied, I assure you. I'm sorry for any…_misunderstanding_."

"I… see," The Healer replied uncertainly, looking suddenly a lot less confident in his pristine white robes. Mind Healers had to have some sensitivity to subtle currents, he supposed. "It's all right then."

"Don't worry about it." He clapped the man in the back. "Just make him better. That's all I ask." And the man never once looked at his eyes.

* * *

"He's dead, you know."

The patient was lying on the bed. He called up a chair with a slashing gesture of his palm, almost hoping to be rebuked for careless conjuring again. But hope seemed a distant memory these days, and the patient never stirred.

"My scar doesn't hurt any more. I know he's dead." He continued softly, hoping to be heard, understood. "I killed him, Albus. I killed him. I remember every fleck of blood I saw that day, every moment of fear. I see it every time I close my eyes."

The aged body lay on the bed. Unmoving. Unmoved. He suppressed the sudden and insane urge to tear out all the covers and shout _Murder!_, for insanity was something he could no longer afford.

"The Change is getting more prominent, you know. I keep trying stronger illusions, better ones. Darker charms, morphing rituals, spells of shaping. But the magic keeps disintegrating against the Change. And the eyes always show up first." He waited, trying to be patient. Waiting for a reaction that he suspected would never come.

"You don't care, do you." He gritted his teeth, resisting the mad rage that was trying to shatter his shields. "You don't care about what I'm becoming. But maybe you _will_ care about this." He leaned forward, whispering in the ancient wizard's ears. "We are_losing_."

Was there a twitch… no, he berated himself. The hallucinations are just a part of the Change. Don't give in. _Never_ give in.

"Yes, that's right." He went on, trying to control his tone. "It's anarchy, Albus. The people think you're dead. The Death Eaters are rearming. More and more murders are happening, abductions, muggleborns now _raped_ in some cases before killed. The smuggling of Dark Artifacts is the highest it's been in a decade." He swallowed to clear his throat. "He's dead, Albus. And he's _still_ winning."

Not one single movement, something in him raged. Not one.

"The Ministry is on the verge of crumbling. Most of the Order are dead. And there's no one – no one that I can trust. Not one single person, Professor. I keep sleeping in strange places, places where no one can or will find me. I keep sleeping with muggle girls – and leave them as soon as I can. Do you even _know_ how that feels?" He hissed at the sleeping form. "Do you know how it is, not having a _single_ person who can share your secrets?" He laughed a little laugh, the sound ugly and bitter. "You being you, you probably do." Something beeped within the folds of his robe, and he took out a small watch from his pocket. It let out a tiny shriek.

"Well, seems I'm out of time for today." He told the patient. "Story of my life, these days… " He got up slowly, vanishing the chair with another flick of his fingers.

"I hope you can hear me, Professor." He spoke, struggling against the sense of futility. "I can't hold on to Britain much longer. Not without you." He smoothed some of the white hairs of the old man, feeling younger again for a moment, remembering the lessons and the friendship that now belonged to the past.

"Come back soon, Professor," He whispered. "I really hope you come back soon. For both our sakes."

The winds were shrieking again, and the air was full of gold and indigo sparks. He ignored the sensations like he always did, and apparated out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Shatterpoint**

* * *

**2**

The Minister's chair had never been a bed of roses.

1725. That had been the cursed year, the date 10th July. The day the Warlocks' Council had convened for the last time, and had proceeded to vote unanimously for the new Minister to take office. There had been no revolution, no blood shed on the open streets. In darkness were all threats met, all who vocally opposed creating the post of Minister neutralized in quiet and terrifying silence. Minister Rowle had promptly gone on to abolish the special judiciary powers of the Council, bringing out the Wizengamot in its stead as the only source of legislative and political power in wizarding Britain.

It had been a massive change, the potential risk colossal and incalculable to the mundane eye. The Minister had not survived the aftermath.

William Potter had stepped into the newly vacated shoes, and if people had whispered of dark dealings and a life bargained away in the hope of power, they had quietened soon enough. History remembers the day Minister Potter had sworn his oath, the start of an era of peace and prosperity in wizarding England hardly matched anywhen else in its bloody and grim annals.

It had been 1734, July 31st.

William had been the first and only Potter who had held the mantle of the Minister of Magic of the British Isles before him. Sometimes Harry wished William had also been the last.

"There had been three abductions in the last week." Amelia said, her brown eyes regarding him with occluded neutrality.

"Three that you have_ confirmed_." He corrected her, sitting up straighter on the ornate high-backed chair. "How many complaints?"

"Eight, but one girl has already been found trying to escape the country with her boyfriend." Amelia replied. "She's been detained and charged with civic disobedience."

"Sedition." He said.

"But Minister – " The tone was protesting, but the notes chimed bitter resignation. He didn't smile, had no reason to. He was the Minister.

"It's a time of trials for England, Amelia." He spoke with authority, cautiously building upon the normal voice with faint traces of power. "Some decisions, harsh as they may seem, have to be made." He reached out with his senses, isolating, encompassing the occluding shield the old witch had erected. It wasn't the time for brute force.

"Our country is going through a civil war," Amelia growled. "_Of course _we have trouble! But you, Minister, will do well to remember that aggravating the masses is never a good idea – "

"I only do what is necessary, Amelia. You, of all people, should understand my position." He said softly, holding back all traces of hostility that tried to bubble forth from within. Her hate he could see, yellow-white, flickering with ugly venom under her well-crafted calm. It _pushed_, against her and against him around her.

"What I understand," The Head of the Magical Law Enforcement spoke softly without the barest hint of outward emotion, "is that you are young for this position, Minister Potter. Forgive my rudeness. But wizards far more advanced in their years had not proven equal to the task you face now. The country is sliding towards the edge, and you must excuse us if some do not prescribe to the popular concept of your omnipotence."

"You feel that I'm not doing my job well?" He asked, _listening_ to her heart. The skipped beats screamed of fear.

"You have been… harsh, of late. Unusually harsh. Your popularity has suffered because of it. You know this." She didn't look him in the eyes.

"I must make harsh decisions that nobody else will, Amelia. That _is_ my job. I am the Minister of Magic of Britain, and in times of civil war my word is Law." He was firm, cold and mercilessly firm. "Charge the girl with sedition. It will discourage others to follow the same road. We must _not_ lose our witches and wizards to other countries. They cannot be allowed to pass the borders without our permission. It'll turn into a mass exodus otherwise, and quickly."

"It will be as you say, Minister Potter." Said Amelia Bones. He listened for the unsaid words.

"I hope that your department will act upon the reported crimes with its usual zeal." He said, signaling the end of the conversation. He watched silently as the witch gathered her things, leaving the office in silence.

The formality of speech had been embarrassing when he had taken this job first, had been difficult. Yet now it was natural as charms, the nuances and subtle hints flowing with ease that would've worried him years before. Now it seemed… an advantage. The Change waited behind the mirror, mocking and cruel. Yet he suspected that he was surviving in this world of hints and hidden knives only because of it.

He was a dictator, they said. Let them say what they willed.

He was worse than that, much worse.

He had killed Lord Voldemort to take his place, they said.

He smiled at the thought. Maybe they really did know what they were talking about.

William Potter had been the only of his family who had held the mantle of the Minister of Magic of the British Isles before this. With his every breath Harry wished he had also been the last.

* * *

_He waited in his office, patient. Minerva and Molly and Arthur were there, too. Molly was weeping, Arthur trying to console her and looking at him with eyes that held silent accusation. He looked at Minerva, all thin lips and narrowed eyes, the anger in her expression shockingly expressive for a witch trained at occluding._

_Why was he waiting? For what, whom? He looked around, but Fawkes' perch was empty. He was waiting for him to come back, he realized. Something was happening… something important…_

_The world was pale, colourless. Less real than it should have been, his senses told him. Flat and stale, a vision through a cracked glass._

_Gold and yellow fire burst into the room, the familiar trill soothing yet without their usual power. Fawkes alighted on his perch, looking at him with knowing eyes. His claws were smeared red, he observed. The red of blood._

_Few things lived on this earth whose blood could survive the phoenix's fire. Few._

_What was he waiting for?_

_Not what, something told him. Not what, but who…_

_The stairs alerted him, the wards pulsing faintly and telling him of wizards and charms. Three, he sensed, and a spell of levitation. _

_They entered._

_He heard Molly's shriek, Arthur's gasp. Saw the body being lowered to the floor. Saw nothing for a time after that._

_Prophecy, he told himself, remembering. Prophecy. James and Lily._

_The boy didn't look at him, kept looking down as Molly and Arthur gathered around the girl lying on the floor. The other boy was mute, silent. In shock, he recognized. Minerva was crying, quietly._

_He looked hard at the Chosen One. The bloody sword gleamed in the small hands, the Founder's name on it engraved with dormant power. _

_The boy looked up._

_The eyes were red with tears, ablaze with guilt and grief. They veiled what lay deeper within._

_Was this what he had been waiting for?_

_He tried to look away. Did not. Could not. It was his responsibility._

_He saw trust, friendship, love. He saw them shattering, screaming as despair's fire set the soul ablaze. _

_Swords were forged thus. Diamonds. _

_He did not look away as blackness came and swirled around his vision. Light fell away from him, sound vanished into silence. _

_He did not forget the eyes._

* * *

The Saviour did not flinch as he woke from his stupor as the white owl landed in front of him. He did not have to concentrate to keep his hands steady as he retrieved the parchment tied to the bird's leg, beady owl eyes glaring at him all the while. He did not mind – it was refreshing, of a sort, to know malice as it is and not hidden behind broken notes in honeyed words or sharp silences that veiled dark intent.

He held off breaking open the seal till it was gone, flying through the open window as the dying sunlight shone pale on its white wings. Then he opened the scroll, smoothed it out, his movements practiced and speaking of preoccupied absence. His eyes sharpened as he started reading.

_Sir,_

_According to your instructions, I have endeavoured for these past eleven months to find out the whereabouts of the objects you had mentioned. However, little has changed since my last letter and I remain largely unsuccessful in my efforts. No mention of such things has ever been made in the documents kept by the authorities here that deal with those events in particular. Nor have the people who remember those times been helpful to any great extent, perhaps understandably._

_The "stories" you had mentioned are well-known here; indeed, the symbol itself is thought of to have originated from the legends. I have been, however, unable to find anything further, and can only conclude that the symbol had been only an indication of the sentiment of the party (and the individual) involved. Nothing suggests that it had ever represented anything significant in a_ material_ way. In short, I do not think that the individual had ever really hoped to _find_ the legends but had merely used the fables to propagate his idea of the correct social hierarchy._

_Barring your interest in researching this topic further, I would like to return and resume my duties._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Harriet Jones_

He slowly set the letter down, a frown marring his brows. He was lost in thought for a few moments, then shrugged and laid a finger on the scroll waiting on the desk. A small blue spark played over the aged parchment for a moment as his lips moved over a word or two, then it cracked and disintegrated into fine white ash. He blew it away with an impatient breath.

He help up his right hand, close to the eye. A whispered word, and something blurred the air for a moment, coalescing into a ring that now adorned his index finger. He narrowed his eyes at the simple stone, the symbol etched on it now half-faded.

It held no curse, he knew. He had seen to that. Knowing what state the old wizard was in by the time he had found him, the curse it had contained must have been _terrible_. He knew of only two people who could've managed that against Albus Dumbledore. Both were dead, one of them had killed the other before being destroyed by Harry himself.

Perhaps it was a memento of the Secret War, he supposed, another of those artifacts shaped by Grindelwald himself to help his allies of the Third Reich in the muggle World War Two. Had Dumbledore stumbled upon its location by chance and had gone to retrieve it, not trusting the Ministry with such information. That did fit the old man's methods… but something about this explanation wasn't right. He had learned to trust his instincts about these things a long time before.

He grimaced. And now even Hermione had turned up nothing. He had such hopes. She was the best researcher the Ministry had – their most brilliant analyzer. Yet she had found nothing about the symbol except the usual fables. The story told to children, about the Deathly Hallows.

He had such hopes. The Wand of Destiny would've been a nice weapon, but the Resurrection Stone… what mastery it must have been, were it true. To bring back the shades from the other side of the veil, to drag back who is gone from oblivion… what mastery of Death itself. If only it were true. Of course it had been a story – a fable to amuse children. And yet his instincts whispered that they were there, out in the world, there for him to find.

If only… he grimaced again. Then he carefully selected a blank parchment out of the bunch on his desk, taking up a quill. He wrote carefully, his face set and grim.

_Madam,_

_You have been diligent in your duties. I am satisfied with your conclusions. We await your return._

There was no name, no address on the letter. He opened a drawer and hunted for a moment, coming up with a seal that looked just like the one that waited on his desk. He looked at it for a moment, then applied it to the scroll. A wave of his hands and the parchment vanished, to the outer desk and waiting for the owls to deliver it.

There was something he needed to do… what was it? Oh, yes… that girl. He took out a small silver badge out of his robes, an oval-shaped piece of smooth plain metal adorned with only a crown of leaves on the upside. The Minister's Badge of Office, first worn by his ancestor, a legacy that had become only another trinket that came with the job over the centuries, its secrets forgotten or ignored as more and more inept wizards found themselves on the Minister's seat. He closed his eyes for a moment, murmuring. _"Invenio Nymphadora Tonks."_ He smiled for a moment at the name, sure that even he wouldn't get out of being cursed if she ever found out that he used her full name for the summonings. _"Appello… Appello…"_ The metal grew warm in his hand. He placed in on the desk and busied himself with the mass of paperwork that awaited him.

He looked up as she entered his office, the oval face a familiar thing under green curls. He snorted.

"Take a seat, Tonks." He said.

"I'll rather stand, thanks," She was angry, he could see that. Her narrowed eyes were a dead giveaway.

"You heard about the girl, I presume." He said carefully, not pressing any particular emotion in his voice. She was one of the few people left whim he could take at face value, and they were al aware of _that_ particular trick.

"Everyone heard." She dragged a chair and sat, her motions jerky and speaking of violence. He tensed, his muscles straining as instincts whispered to pre-empt the possible enemy. He had to struggle for a moment to relax. He wasn't in danger, he reminded himself. Probably. Hopefully. She _was_ getting more and more angry in the silence, he noticed.

"Everyone's heard," She spoke finally. "Merlin, Harry, do you even know how old she is? Barely seventeen, if that – and now she's facing a ten-twenty year stint at Azkaban – and for what?" She was almost shouting now. "For wanting to get out of the country? _I_ want to get out of the country, for Merlin's sake – "

"Don't be ridiculous, Tonks." He tried to speak calmly, and he had to say that he carried it off well. "We both know that letting her go is not an option. There're hundreds – thousands who would try to get out of Britain if they think have a chance. I'm sorry," And he was, he was, but maybe not really. "Mercy is not an option we can exercise right now. The threat of Azkaban is all that's keeping the society from a full collapse at the moment."

"Oh, I know all about your views," She said hotly. "So do Sirius and Remus – and they won't be happy with this, Harry. Count on that."

"Sirius and Remus," He snapped, "aren't the ones holding the badge of the Minister of Magic. _I_ am. And I know that if we show her mercy, it'll be a hundred more like her tomorrow, and the next day – I'm sorry, Tonks, but she must go to trial charged with sedition. She broke a wartime Ministerial Edict. It's the law. And she is not a minor."

"So you think that_ this_ is going to help your popularity any? Skeeter will have a field day with this, ranting about freedom and Ministry oppression. And I," she said, "will agree with her. For once."

"I couldn't care less about the shit Skeeter writes, to be absolutely frank, Tonks." He shrugged. "Same goes for my so-called popularity… I can't even go out to the street without being mobbed by angry crowds these days. _Everybody_ seems angry. As if Voldemort's cronies did anything better with the job."

"They didn't," She conceded. "But I didn't expect you to do something like _this_ – "

"As I said," He interrupted, "I don't particularly care what happens to my popularity. We cannot be seen as weak to the masses. They think I can vanish mountains, your average wizard or witch. Even _that_ barely keeps them from panic at the first whisper of another Death Eater attack."

"I don't know who taught you that being merciful is weak," She shook his head. "Merlin, Harry, she' only seventeen! What's the point in winning the war if _we_ do things like these?"

"I know that it's harsher than it should be, under usual circumstances." He said. "However, _officially_, I can offer nothing." He coughed, once, clearing his throat. "The warder of Azkaban has resigned."

"Resigned?" She blinked, bewildered.

"Five hours ago, the poor man," He said. "Said that he's had too much of the cold and the dementors. I don't blame him. But the fact remains that I need a temporary replacement… for a couple of months, really. You're one of the senior-most Aurors I have that fit the criteria. So you're it."

"Oh…" Her face split into a broad grin. "But… you said _five_ hours ago? Amelia saw you just an hour ago, didn't she?"

"It's fortunate that I had on hand such an able replacement," He shrugged, carefully not smirking. "You'll have to start your job tomorrow morning. I suggest you find a babysitter soon."

"Remus can take care of them," She said absentmindedly, still smiling. "Harry, did you get rid of the fucking _Warden_ just to – "

"He's been wanting to leave for some time, actually," He cut in. "I just didn't think it was the proper time."

"And now it is?" She raised a grass-green brow.

"He really insisted." This time he smiled. "Go home, Tonks. You start at tomorrow dawn – and your first official business tomorrow would be the transportation of the accused after tomorrow's trial, if she is found guilty, of course. I suggest you send suitable Aurors of your choice for such a delicate task. Good luck." He nodded.

She nodded back, grinning still, then stood up to leave.

The question burst out as she turned the door handle. "Tonks… your hair…"

"What about it?" She touched the green curls, frowning.

"Why green?" He asked hesitantly.

"What?" She looked bewildered. "What green?"

_Oh._

_Damn. Damn. Damn. I need a Healer fast._

_Should've known – she always keeps them violet, doesn't want to remind others of her talent – damn!_

"You never get the jokes," He snorted, trying to laugh even though panic raced through his muscles, freezing this and this and that with its icy breath. "Go home. And say hi to Remus for me. Now shoo!" He waved her off, her face still puzzled as she left. He let out a shaky breath.

_I wonder how much time I have before this becomes permanent… and I can't tell anybody, can I? Not even a Healer. And not Sirius… especially not Sirius._

_Because I know._

_I suspect._

_I should've thought this out before doing it. The Dark Arts make you pay. Always._

_If only you were here, Albus. Did you suspect?_

_Did you know?_

_I think you did. I think you did._

_But I'm alive. And I killed him._

_At least I did that._

_You understood, didn't you, Albus? You understood. He was killing so many. So many. I had to find power where I could. However I could._

_And if the price is murder and a piece of who you are – but I paid. I paid._

_I'm still paying. I'm afraid I'll be paying as long as I live…_

… _as long as I live… _

_Immortality isn't all it's cracked up to be. Maybe you knew that. Flamel would've told you that. _

_Damn it, Albus. Damn you. You should've made me understand._

_You should've stopped me._


End file.
